


Summertime Sweetness

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Class Differences, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Kissing, Pining, Rimming, Stable boy Jon Snow, Teasing, Victorian, Voyeurism, stable hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: For months, stable boy Jon has watched Daenerys go about her daily life without ever speaking to her. But when her father goes away on business, she decides to take up riding. When faced with his Lord's cheeky daughter, will Jon be able to restrain his lusts?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 97
Kudos: 543





	1. Chapter 1

Jon knows he shouldn’t look, but he still stares; his face pressed against the wood, his eye pinned to the crack between the planks. She is in the courtyard. She is dressed in white; a habit of velveteen, the skirt draped over her arm, the tips of her brown boots peeking out. She wears gloves. The kidskin has been bleached to match her outfit. He imagines how soft the leather would feel dragging down his chest, into his trousers, closing around his cock.

Jon shivers. He wants to touch himself. He doesn’t. He just stands, and he watches.

It is summer. It is warm. The stable is drenched in heat, and it stirs the smells of dirt and dung downstairs. In his room, he can still hear the sounds of the horses neighing, and the lads fetching buckets of oats and water, and the crack of a whip being tried out. He should be tending to the harnesses, drying the leather, oiling the metallic bits.

But he allows himself a moment of bliss - a minute in which he isn’t someone’s _errand boy,_ just a mere spectator. He pushes closer to the wall. He follows her with his eye:

Daenerys Targaryen, young and unmarried. A lady in manner, a _Miss_ in title. She has pale lashes and plump lips and an air of allure to her every move; the way she brushes her silver hair behind her ear, or talks with quiet determination. She is polite, but bold

\- like now, as she turns on her heels, pushes her hat back, peers up at him. Jon knows she can’t see him, but he feels her violet gaze all the same. Curious, obliging. His hand slips down the wooden wall, teases the fabric of his trousers, rounds the throb of his groin. His breath is stuck in his throat. He feels sweat tickling his nape. He grabs himself through his garments. He shudders at his own touch.

He turns at the sound of someone calling:

“Jon! Come here at once, lad!” and he drags himself away from the crack and down the stairs.

Davos awaits him by the horses. He is old, and greying, but the frustration on his cheeks is lively red. When he spots him, he throws him a brush. It is damp with oil. “Sort out her mane, will ye?” he says.

“I’m no groom,” Jon protests, though he still approaches the horse. _Silver._ The mare has a grey coat and a mane the colour of smoke. She is a regal horse. _She is Daenerys’ horse,_ he reminds himself, pausing before its stall.

Davos spits and sends him a hard glare. “Do ye know how t’ use a brush?”

“Of course.”

“Then I guess ye’re a groom now, lad.”

Jon scoffs, but he doesn’t argue. As he starts combing the mare’s mane, his eyes follow Davos. He is trudging around, his old boots kicking hay aside as he collects a harness, padding, a saddle. There’s sweat on his brows. Jon can’t help but ask: “What’s the matter?”

“What’s t’ matter?” Davos laughs. His voice is hollow, the words forced out through gritted teeth. “What’s t’ matter. I’ll tell ye this, boy - the young Miss Targaryen has decided t’ go ridin’.”

“Is that all?” Jon says with raised brows. “Surely we’ve got a side saddle for her.”

“Isn’t a matter of what we’ve got, but who’s watchin’,” Davos replies gruffly. “Lord Targaryen is away on business.” He turns and, upon seeing Jon’s confused face, snorts: “Ye’re new, boy. What would ye know ‘bout the Targaryens.”

“I know they pay me,” Jon replies airily, before snapping: “And I’m no _boy.”_

“I remember bein’ twenty.”

“Must have been a lifetime ago.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Davos warns, but he’s smirking. As Jon continues to groom Silver, he readies her for riding. He looks tired. He looks stressed. With every movement, his cheeks grow an even darker shade, and the perspiration on his forehead thickens. “Lord Targaryen doesn't like his daughter ridin’. Prefers her to use t’ carriage. Can’t blame him, mind - the woods are treacherous.”

Jon licks his teeth as he listens. He’s moving on to the coat, taking a damp wisp of hay to any hair that looks dirty. “So why not tell her no?” he asks.

Davos sends him an incredulous look. “Did ye talk t’ the Starks like that?” he asks before shaking his head. “Clearly hired fer ye skills, not ye manners. Never tell a woman no, lad, especially not a lady.”

“She’s not a lady yet,” Jon reminds him.

“Aye,” Davos says, sending him a knowing look, “but if t’ Lannisters agree, she will be soon, but ye’ll still be a _boy._ Here,” he hands him the reins, “bring her out, help her on. Show that ye know how t’ behave.”

Jon is flushed with anger, but he silently accepts the leather reins. _Boy._ The word makes his ears ring. The Starks taught him how to ride, and hunt, and care for the horses. He’s sure he knows just as much about running a stable as Davos.

 _But it doesn’t matter,_ he knows, _not unless the Targaryens approve of me._ So he bites back his scowl and, as he walks into the sunshine, tries to pull a pleasant smile.

Daenerys watches him approach. The expression on her face is neutral.

“Good morning, Miss,” Jon greets. He can smell her in the air; orange-flowers and lavender. The fragrance makes him parched. He tries not to look directly at her as he pauses before her. He eyes the ground. He spots the tips of her boots. “It’s a nice day for a ride.”

“I hear it’s going to rain later.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ve heard talks of a storm.”

“So not a nice day for a ride after all, hmm?”

Jon slowly looks from the ground to her eyes. The violet in them glimmer with mischief. He can’t tell if she means to make him laugh, or feel stupid. He decides not to react at all; he just stands, straight and polite, and he tries not to linger on any particular detail about her face. But he sees her: small nose, pink cheeks, the curve of her ear, the soft silver locks escaping her updo, the slim neck, the plump lips. They’re tugging back into a smile. He imagines pushing his thumb between her teeth, across her tongue, feeling her soft mouth. Kissing it. Owning it.

Jon’s groin throbs. He looks down again. He finally replies: “No, Miss. Of course not, Miss.”

“I don’t believe we’ve spoken before. Are you newly hired?”

“I guess, Miss. Last November.”

“Ah,” Daenerys nods, “I’ve not been riding since Christmas.” It’s a statement. Jon doesn’t know what to reply, so he’s grateful when she asks: “What is your name?”

“Jon. Jon Snow.”

“Well, Mr Snow, we may not have spoken, but I have seen you around,” Daenerys admits. “It is nice to finally know your position.”

“Yes, Miss,” Jon speaks, but his ears seem to ring even louder. His _position._ He knows what that is; at day, in the muck of the stable, and at night, in the small room above. During winter, it was freezing cold, the wind howling through every crack in the wood. Now, at the height of summer, the heat settles like a blanket. He can’t sleep at night. He lies naked, drenched in sweat and red from warmth. He’s sure his thoughts are showing on his face.

Daenerys is either oblivious, or decides to ignore the curtness to his attitude. “Well, it should come as no surprise to you,” she says, and her eyes gleam when she continues: “After all, I believe you’ve seen me too.”

Jon’s eyes snap back up to meet hers. His heartbeat is in his throat. He croaks: “What?” before quickly correcting himself: _“Miss?”_ A flush is creeping up his neck. He feels clammy beneath his clothes.

Daenerys chuckles. It could be a huff. She reaches over and strokes Silver’s mane. She teases the mare’s ears, and the horse leans into her touch. “It is human nature to see, and be seen. But you will find that women have a particular sense for when they’re being watched.”

She is not looking at him when she speaks, but Jon feels chided all the same. He wonders what she knows: just the innocent looks from afar, like when she arrived in the December snow, her body clad in a thick coat and the hat on her hair warm? Maybe how he admired her in the spring as she drank tea in the gardens with her mother?

 _Or perhaps,_ Jon thinks, the blush reaching his cheeks as Daenerys looks back at him, her front teeth tugging at her lower lip, _all the times I’ve watched her from my room._ He remembers: his hands wandering, his groin burning, his body hard from the sight of her.

The silence has carried on for too long. Jon forces himself to speak: “I meant no harm, Miss.”

Daenerys smiles at him. “I should think not,” she merely replies. Then, she finally moves - walks around him, their shoulders brushing, and she grabs a hold of the head on the saddle. “Will you assist me?”

Jon quickly squats down. He forms a cup with his hands, and Daenerys lifts her skirts slightly as she steps into his palms. Her boot is small and smooth against his roughened skin. He takes in a deep breath, stops himself from gazing up at her breeches, and moves to push her with strength.

But Daenerys suddenly pulls away.

Jon blinks up at her. “Miss?”

“You have nothing to prove,” Daenerys says. Her hand is still at the saddle, but her foot is hovering in the air. The way the fabric is swung over her arm gives him a clear view of her legs all the way to the knees.

Jon takes in a sharp breath. He remains focused on her face. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t follow.”

“If you use all your strength, you’ll have me thrown on the other side of the horse,” Daenerys says with amusement. “I can feel it in your hands,” she explains, lowering her boot back into his palms, “you’re gripping me _tight._ Relax, Mr Snow - I prefer to be treated gently.”

Jon’s throat is feeling so dry that he can’t even muster a sound. He just nods, and he holds her foot softly, his thumbs brushing to the leather as she steps into his grip. She prepares. She springs - her other foot leaps off the ground, and Jon guides her into the saddle.

This close, he can sense the warmth of her body. He doesn’t want to let go. But he does - moves back, brushes the dirt off his hands, and then offers her the reins. “Miss,” he says.

“Thank you.” Daenerys glances down at him. In the shadow from the brim of her hat, he thinks he sees her smirking. “We will talk later. Good day, Mr Snow.”

“Good day,” Jon returns the greeting, stepping aside as Daenerys sets off in a gallop, her frame soon becoming small as she disappears out of the courtyard and across the fields, _“Daenerys.”_ Her name feels teasing on his lips. He lingers on it for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the stables.

Davos waits for him at the entrance. He’s wiping his hands off in a cloth. “Took yer time,” he grunts.

“She wanted to talk,” Jon defends himself. He doesn’t look at Davos as he speaks, just makes his way to the harness room. He wants to run over their conversation in his head. He wants to remember the way she looked, spoke, _smiled._

But the man follows at his heels. “Aye, I’m sure she talked,” Davos says. As Jon settles down on a stool and starts cleaning the harnesses, he leans against the wall. “Listen, boy, you be careful. I know what men think when they see her.”

“Then you’ve no reason to worry,” Jon replies snootily, “you just said it yourself; I’m a _boy.”_

“Now’s no time t’ joke,” Davos warns him. There’s no hint of jest to his voice.

Jon glares at him. The image of Daenerys in his head is already fading. The scent of her perfume no longer lingers in his nostrils. “Spit it out,” he says.

Davos’ lips snap, but he doesn’t speak. He just stands for a moment, glaring at Jon, his whole body filling with air as if he’s building up to a speech. But instead of shouting, his voice comes out soft: “Just beware of Lord Targaryen.”

Jon looks up from the leather in his hands. He peers at Davos, and the old coachman looks back at him, tiredly, before shaking his head and disappearing back into the stables. Jon glances down at his hands. He throws the harness to the floor with a bitter grimace. “Shit,” he mutters.

 _He knows._ How could he not. He knows there is no purpose; he hangs around like a dog, wagging his tail whenever he catches sight of her, and then goes back to waiting once she’s out of sight. Six months, and today’s the first time they’ve spoken. _Six months._

Jon wants to tear the hangings off the walls. Instead, he picks the harness back up, blows the dust off of it, and begrudgingly resumes cleaning in silence.

* * *

Daenerys returns at dusk.

The wind has picked up. It blows so loudly that Jon scarcely hears the hooves of the horse clacking across the courtyard. He is hungry. He is halfway through dinner. He still puts his bowl aside as Daenerys steps into the stable.

“Miss,” he calls and approaches her. She is flushed from the evening air, and he can see a cool mist of rain on her jacket. He glances past her up at the sky. The clouds are closely knitted together. “I’m glad you didn’t get caught in the rain.”

“Just barely,” Daenerys replies. She hands him the harness, and Jon takes it, leading Silver back inside. He doesn’t expect Daenerys to follow, but she does; as he starts wiping the mare down with a flannel cloth, she leans against the stall and watches him work. She sounds out of breath. She sounds happy. “It was good being out again. I lost track of time.”

“It’s just past eight, Miss.”

Daenerys lets go of a short laugh. “Well, I am glad Father isn’t home.”

Jon doesn’t comment. He starts washing the horse’s legs before taking off the bridle and crupper. His every move is followed by Daenerys. As she pulls off her gloves and pops her lips, he almost expects a scolding.

Instead she says: “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Jon could smile. He tries to sound casual as he replies: “I should hope so.” He makes a show of taking off the saddle. It is still warm from her behind. When he turns his back to her to hang it, he brushes his thumbs across the damp heat. He wonders if she’s hot between her thighs. He imagines the scent of flowers have been worn off of her skin, and if he were to smell her now, the fragrance would be all natural.

Jon breathes in sharply. He hides his excitement in a cough before fetching some oats. As Silver eats, he dares another peek at Daenerys.

Her gloves hang from her left hand whilst she carefully studies her right. “I presume you’ve met my father.”

Jon clicks his tongue. It’s not the conversation he was hoping for. He pretends to be busy brushing the mare’s coat as he replies: “Yes, we’ve spoken.”

 _Aerys Targaryen._ The man is younger than Davos, but looks twice his age. Jon has no particular feelings about him. He’s heard he’s ill. He’s seen his temper; fits of sudden rage, shouts of fury echoing throughout the mansion. He knows to be wary of him. He wonders if he should watch himself around Daenerys’ too. Davos’ words play in his head: _you be careful._

Daenerys looks like she’s read his mind. “Daughters tend to be like their mother,” she says, “and sons like their father. Are you akin yours?”

Jon thinks of Ned; strong, honest, kind. “I’d like to be,” he admits.

“And your mother?”

Jon looks at her. He senses he should be ashamed, but he stares straight into her eyes as he says: “I never knew her.”

Daenerys doesn’t blink. “I’m sorry,” she says, meeting his gaze with honesty.

“Do not be, Miss,” Jon says, “I have found peace with it.”

“Sometimes not knowing is a blessing,” Daenerys says.

Before Jon can stop himself, he scoffs: “Easy words to speak when yours are alive.” The moments the sentence has left his lips, he snaps his mouth shut. His throat hurts. His chest aches. He averts his eyes and quietly begins shuffling hay around in the stall.

For a while, neither of them speak. Daenerys is looking out into the courtyard, and Jon is keeping his hands busy with any minor task he can think of. He feels the pressure - he knows he should speak, that he should apologise. He can’t risk his position. He can’t go back home.

But it’s Daenerys who breaks the silence: “We are not just judged for who we are, but where we come from. It is the sin of living. I am sure you have been told that my father disapproves of me riding?”

Jon mutters an: “Aye,” but he watches her with caution.

“When I go riding, I am considered disobedient. Because it is against my father’s wishes. Nevermind my own thoughts on the matter - I am judged in his light.”

Jon licks his teeth. He leans back against the stall and watches her.

“When I marry,” she continues, slapping her gloves into the palm of her hands with a sigh, “it’ll be at my husband’s mercy that I am judged. So you understand, Mr Snow - I am never my own person.” Her gloves snap. She flinches. When Jon perks, he sees why; there, across her right hand, is a bruise.

“What happened, Miss?” he asks.

Daenerys spreads the fingers on her hand as she eyes it. “I forgot to bring my cane. Without the crook, I had to reach to open the gates on my way. As you can imagine,” a wry smile takes over her lips, “it is no easy task from atop a horse.”

Jon feels his heart sink. _A cane,_ he thinks, _I should’ve known to bring her one._ “Forgive me-” he starts, but Daenerys interrupts him:

“Are you on your own?” She’s looking around the stable. It is almost bathed in darkness now; the greying light falling in from the outside is making the shadows long and stark. “Where is Mr Seaworth?”

“In his hut, Miss. It’s just myself cleaning up.”

“Ah, so you’ve taken over his old room?” she asks and nods toward the ceiling.

Jon’s gaze flickers between the upstairs and Daenerys. “Yes, Miss,” he says.

Daenerys watches him for a minute with a ponderous expression on her face. Jon can’t quite pinpoint her thoughts, and it makes him feel nervous. He shuffles his weight between his feet. He’s relieved when she speaks: “My father is away on business. I expect him back at the end of the month. I intend to ride daily until then.”

“I will make sure Silver is readied for you,” Jon promises.

Daenerys eyes him again. She holds out her hand. “What should I do about this?” she asks.

Jon hesitates as he peers at the bruise. It is long, but narrow, and turning pale blue. He sucks on his teeth. “I don’t think much can be done, Miss,” he admits.

“Kiss it better.”

Jon blinks at her. He parts his lips to speak. No words come out.

Daenerys cocks her head and smiles innocently. “You forgot my cane, Mr Snow,” she reminds him, “so really, you’re at fault. It’s the least you can do.” She stretches her fingers slightly and repeats: “Kiss it better.”

Jon’s face feels hot. He tries to swallow. He ends up making a coughing noise instead. He’s watching her hand; small, soft, delicate. He shouldn’t touch it, he knows. It’s a joke, or a test. He should bid her goodnight. But he takes her hand instead, lets her soft fingers rest in his roughened palms, and he bends down and presses his lips to the bruise.

Her skin is warm. Her knuckles bump to his lips. He lingers for a second longer than necessary. In his head, he continues; up her small wrist, his nose digging into the fabric of her habit, his hands pushing up her skirt, his strength trapping her to the wall.

Jon throbs. He holds back a gasp. He quickly lets go of her hand and steps into the shadows of the mare, hoping that the darkness will hide his blush. He looks for something to say. He mumbles: “I should finish up.”

Daenerys smirks. She pulls her hand back and closes her fingers around her gloves. “Good night, Mr Snow,” she says, “I trust I will see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, Miss,” Jon mutters, still not looking at her, “good night, Miss.” He stands still, listening to her footsteps as she makes her way out of the stable, across the courtyard, back to the mansion. Only once the last sound has been washed away with the wind does he dare to raise his eyes. His heartbeat is in his throat. His lungs burn from a lack of air. He breathes in sharply and holds onto the side of the stall.

 _Shit._ Jon’s whole body feels on edge. His lips are tingling. His groin is filled with blood. If it wasn’t dark, he’d hurry to his room, push himself to the crack, and watch Daenerys. He would relish in her backside; her silver hair blowing in the wind, her narrow waist, the way the fabric falls around her behind and thighs.

Jon kicks the bucket of oats. As it spills across the floor, Silver stomps the ground and neighs at him. “Alright, alright,” he scoffs and pats her dismissively, “I’ll get it cleaned up.”

But as Jon settles into his usual routine, washing down the mare and wiping the saddle and filling the stall with hay, his mind still buzzes with the image of Daenerys, and despite Davos’ warning he knows: he can’t wait to see her again.

* * *

The next two weeks seem to pass in a flurry of moments.

In the afternoons, he spots her through the crack; in lavish blue or a bold green trim, her habit changing with her mood. She always walks slowly, with purpose, and more than once he finds her pausing before the building, her head leaned back, her eyes seeking his hiding spot. They don’t speak of it - but they do speak. When he brings her Silver, they exchange pleasantries. She will ask:

“Good day, Mr Snow?” and he will reply:

“Beautiful day for riding, Miss Targaryen,” and she will tease:

“You should come along sometime,” and he will pretend not to hear her, his cheeks flushed red. Just like he will pretend not to see anything when he squats, his hands held out, her boot in his palms. But he _does_ see: her skirt, pulled an inch higher every day, and her tongue, licking her lips as she watches him bend before her, and her hand, soft and teasing in the way it brushes against his to claim the reins.

The hours that follow always drag. Jon cleans the stalls, and wipes the harnesses, and helps the groom with the horses. Sometimes Davos will have him scrub down the carriage. The old man will stand behind him, his breathing heavy and his arms crossed, and he will find an excuse to scold him, like:

“Wipe t’ wood, lad, or it’ll swell from the moistur’,” or: “Do ye call that clean, boy? Work ‘em hands, Jon, work ‘em.” But inevitably, his scolding will falter, and soon the coachman speaks words of warning so hot that Jon’s ears ring.

“Ye like t’ talk,” he says one afternoon.

It is close to six. It is a bright day; the sun falls through the windows over Jon’s face. He’s kneeling, greasing the axletree with such force that his hands are starting to sweat. They’re covered in oil and stink of leather. He wipes them off in his trousers as he sends Davos a tired look. “I’d say you do enough talking for the both of us,” he points out.

“Aye, ye don’t talk t’ me, but ye talk t’ the ladies.”

“Don’t know any,” Jon says airily.

Davos grunts. His lips are twisted into a grimace; he’s grinning and scowling at the same time. “I like ye, boy. That’s why I warn ye.”

“I’m not a _boy,”_ Jon says with exasperation.

“Aye, ye want t’ be a man? Think ye kno’ what it takes?” Davos walks up behind him. He towers before the window, his shadow falling across Jon.

Jon’s hands rest on the wheel of the carriage. He peers up at Davos. He is silent, but bitter - his annoyance shows in lines by his eyes. He’s holding himself back. If he didn’t, he’d be throwing the cloth down and stalking out of the stable. But he sits. He listens.

Davos grunts and nods. “I said I like ye, but it’s the Targaryens I’m loyal to. I watched her grow - she was a babe in me arms, an’ now she’s a woman in flesh. I don’t want her harmed.”

Jon sucks on his lower lip. He could feign ignorance, say: “I have no idea who you’re talking about!” - but Davos’ face is hard with knowledge. He snorts. He rubs more oil onto the cloth. He starts wiping the wheels and says: “I’m not stupid.”

“I’m countin’ on it.”

But Jon _longs_ to be stupid - in the dark evenings, when the boys have left and Davos has headed off to his hut, he can barely eat his dinner as he waits for _her._ She always comes just before sunset, her cheeks glowing and her mare tired. He feeds and washes Silver as they talk, his movements slow to drag out the minutes they have together.

As the shadows grow long, Jon finds he has two selves; there’s the dutiful stable boy who does his duties and listens to Miss Targaryen. And then there’s the impatient man who watches her, craves her, imagines himself a part of her every movement; his lips on her body, his hands beneath her skirt, his cock filling her as she cries out his name:

“Jon!”

Jon blinks. His hands have been busy brushing Silver’s coat, but now he pauses, staring at Daenerys.

She smiles softly back at him. “Is that okay?” she asks. “That I call you Jon?”

Jon blinks again. Before he can speak, Daenerys waves her hand dismissively and says:

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine, Miss. Of course,” Jon says, still caught off-guard. His imagination is bleeding away. He reminds himself of where he is, and who he is. _She doesn’t have to ask,_ he remembers, looking down at the mare’s hooves as he continues the brushing, _she can call me whatever she pleases._

“Jon,” Daenerys says, seemingly enjoying his name. “Why then, it’s settled. You’re Jon, and then you must call me Daenerys.”

“I couldn’t!” Jon protests at once.

“Just in here?” Daenerys asks, cocking her head. Her silver hair slips from beneath her hat, down her shoulders, across her lower back.

Jon imagines pushing his hands through her updo, letting the braids loose, holding them, twisting them, dragging her by the hair to a kiss. His body itches. He clears his throat. “It doesn’t seem right,” he mutters.

“What if I’m not asking?” Daenerys says, the sweet smile still on her lips. “What if I’m telling you, _Jon?”_

Jon’s peers around the stable. He knows they’re alone. He still feels watched. Perhaps it’s the way Daenerys eyes him; with amusement and greed at the same time. He has to take a strong hold of the saddle not to do something he’ll regret. “Are you telling me, Miss?” he asks.

Daenerys’ eyes narrow. “Try again,” she says.

Jon licks his lips. He drags his gaze from the floor, up her skirt, past her jacket, to her face. He watches her plump lips as he repeats: “Are you telling me,” he pauses, then: _“Daenerys?”_

Her lips tug back. He sees her teeth. He could sink his tongue between them and swallow her next word: “Better,” but he just mumbles:

“Yes,” and continues to groom Silver.

Yet the hardest part is the nights. They seem endless; drenched in the summer heat, Jon twists and turns in his bed, his mind clouded with Daenerys. He sees her, he smells her, he feels her. His hands become hers as they stroke his body and grab at his cock. His fist becomes her mouth, or her cunt, warm and tight and slick, a few droplets of oil keeping his movements smooth as were he really inside of her.

But release only brings relief for a second. Then he’s awake, and he’s alone. He’s less of a man and more of a boy. He’s angry and he’s bitter and he’s hot with fury; he could tear the stable down if it meant being with her. To hell with Davos’ warnings. _I see you,_ he thinks, pressing his face to the pillow, forcing himself to sleep, _not for your father, but for you. I see you._

Yet the month has almost passed. Lord Targaryen will be back, and Daenerys will avoid the stable, unable to ride in her father’s presence. The thought alone makes bile build up in Jon’s throat.

 _I see you,_ he thinks over and over as he falls asleep, _but do you see me?_

* * *

On a rainy evening, Jon sits impatiently in the stable. The wind is blowing; it howls through the wood and makes the horses neigh. He can feel it all the way in the back, huddled up in the corner, his hands working away on the shaft of a whip. It teases his nape. It makes him feel cold. He wonders how Daenerys is getting on - alone, in the grey storm, her summer habit a poor defense against the wetness. When she left, she teased him once more:

“You should come along - rides get lonely without company.” She smiled. He thought he saw her wink at him. As usual, he’d ignored her - pretended not to hear and not to see, just waved his goodbyes as she took off.

Now, he thinks he should’ve saddled a horse himself. He is restless - his ears are perked and his gaze fixated on the entrance. At the sudden sight of movement, he gets up. He hears hooves against stone. A shadow stirs in the doorway. He puts the whip down and breathes:

“Daenerys, thank God-” but it’s not Daenerys who enters the stable.

Lord Targaryen stands tall, and slim, and frightening. With his pale skin and white hair, he reminds Jon of a ghost - old, and frail, and stern. His eyes are bright and full of spite. They stare him down as he approaches and make him stop halfway.

Jon feels his throat knot up. He can barely speak: “Lord Targaryen.”

Aerys tugs at the reins of his horse. When Jon doesn’t grab them at once, he scoffs: “Did your legs stop working?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak. He snaps it shut. Then, with quiet hurry, he stalks over and claims the reins from Aerys’ hands. He swiftly leads the horse toward an empty stall with a bow of his head and a hoarse: “My Lord.”

Aerys scoffs again. He looks around the stable. Water is dripping from the brim of his hat and down his face. He seems unconcerned by it. “Where’s Davos?” he asks.

“At home, my Lord,” Jon says, “it is just myself.”

“Do you know how to care for a horse?” Aerys asks.

“Yes, my Lord,” Jon promises. As Aerys makes no indication of leaving, he feels pressured to prove it. He sets the horse up with hay and oats, fetches water and a cloth, and starts washing dirt off of its legs. Mud has caked its coat and mane. Jon can tell it’s been a rapid journey.

Aerys pulls the gloves off his hands. They’re black, and tough - Jon can hear it in the way they snap against his palm as he slaps them. His eyes are looking around. It’s like he’s searching the room for something. “You’d think there’d be someone to welcome me, wouldn’t you?” he asks.

Jon glances from his horse to Aerys, but he doesn’t speak. With Daenerys, he watches his words to make sure he doesn’t sound like a fool. With Aerys, he senses his reply is not wanted. When the man’s gaze meets his own, he quickly looks back down and continues with his work.

“My daughter used to wait up for me. When she was little, she’d sit in the window all day and look out for her _Papa._ Now, I’m lucky to see her at dinner.” Aerys’ mouth twists. Whether in amusement or disgust, Jon is not certain.

He keeps quiet. He keeps washing the horse. As the legs are clean and dry, he starts removing the bridle, the crupper, the saddle. Everything is dirty. He will need to stay up late to clean the leather. But it’s the least of his worries.

 _Daenerys is still out there,_ Jon thinks, his gaze flicking to the doorway. He can see the rain picking up. It is hammering against the courtyard. _She will be home any moment._

“Where is she?”

Jon looks at Aerys. His eyes are hard. “My Lord?” he says. He feels his heartbeat in his throat. It makes it hard to speak.

“Silver. Where is she?” Aerys says and gestures at the empty stall.

Jon swallows. Before he can think too much, he replies: “One of the boys has taken her out for exercise, my Lord.”

“At this hour?” Aerys’ nose wrinkles. “I thought you said you knew horses. I’ll have a word with Davos about this.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jon says and tries to look concerned. He dips into the shadows to hide a sigh of relief. _He believes me,_ he thinks, sweat dragging down his forehead.

Aerys watches him work for a few more minutes. Every now and again, he’ll slap his gloves to the palm of his hand, and the snap of leather will echo through the quiet stables.

Jon pretends not to hear - he focuses on the horse, making sure to brush the coat, comb the mane, wash the ears, top up the oats. He tries to work with quick confidence. He hopes showing expertise will convince Aerys that he can be left alone. But he remains, watching, cracking his gloves.

Then, the leather hits his palm one last time, and he closes his fingers around it. “Well,” he says, and he waits for Jon to peer up at him before continuing, “I better see if anyone is expecting me.” With that, he turns and heads for the door.

Jon is not sure what gives him the courage, but as he sees him leave, he straightens up and calls: “Miss Targaryen is away.”

Aerys stops on the threshold. He looks over his shoulder back at him. His eyes are narrow - curious, and cold.

Jon swallows. He clears his throat. “I-I thought I should mention it, my Lord. Miss Targaryen left this morning to pay a visit to,” he wrecks his brain for the family name mentioned by Davos weeks ago and weakly guesses, “to _the Lancasters.”_

“Do you mean the Lannisters, boy?” Aerys asks. His voice has little patience. As Jon nods, he asks: “And how do you know that?”

“I saw them pick her up. In their carriage,” Jon says. The lie seems to just slip from his lips as easily as air. “She didn’t mention when she’d return, my Lord.”

“Do you know why?” Aerys turns to face him, and for a moment Jon believes the question to be genuine. But then the man’s face descends into a grimace: “Because it’s none of your business. Once she is in that carriage, you better forget who she was and where she was heading. My daughter does not concern you. Do you understand?”

Jon feels himself pale. He nods.

Aerys looks him up and down. “You’re what the Starks sent me?” he asks and, when Jon nods again, he lets go of a hard laugh: “Figures!” Without further comment, he walks into the rain and disappears.

Jon stands for a moment watching the doorway, his heart sinking in his chest and cold sweat clinging onto his skin, and all he can think is: _Daenerys, please come back soon._


	2. Chapter 2

Jon spends the next hour washing and drying and brushing Aerys’ horse. It’s not that he’s particularly keen on the work - but whenever he pauses, whenever his hands are not busy, he finds himself fidgeting with worry. He thinks of Daenerys. He thinks of her return. He wonders what will happen if her father realises the truth - that she’s disobeyed him, that she’s been riding all month.

But mostly, he wonders if she’s okay. The storm keeps picking up. The walls of the stable shudder. Another hour drags by. Then another. There is no more daylight outside. He has to turn on an oil lamp to work in its light. He scrubs the saddle, the girdle. He washes the harness. He does it three times over. The leather is soft. The metal is shining.

Still no Daenerys.

It is past midnight when Jon imagines he hears the sound of a horse. He imagines he sees her entering the stable, cold and wet and shivering. He imagines she leans in over the table, her hat shadowing the light, her lips whispering:

“Did you wait for me?” and he replies:

“Yes, Miss, I did,” and she lightly scolds him:

“It’s Daenerys, remember?” and he smiles:

“Not if your father hears,” and she asks:

“Why would he hear?” and he says:

“Because he’s returned,” and she places her hand on his arm as she breathes:

“What did you say?”

Jon stirs. He blinks his dream away. But the image of Daenerys remains before him; strong, and steady. And real.

Jon jumps to his feet with a yelp of surprise. The stool falls behind him. Daenerys takes a step back, her hand still outstretched but no longer touching him. When he grabs it, it feels clammy against his fingers. He warms it with his palms as he stares at her. “You’re back,” he realises.

“I got caught in the storm,” Daenerys explains. There’s something in her eyes - a glimpse of something he hasn’t seen before. _Worry._ “It was too dangerous to leave the woods. I had to sit it out.”

It is only then Jon realises the rain has stopped. There is no wind blowing through the walls either. It is silent. It makes him lower his voice to almost a whisper. “I am glad you’re okay,” he says, squeezing her hand harder without intending to. “When you didn’t return home, I thought-” He quiets.

Daenerys places her other hand atop his. She sends him an urging look. “Jon, you mentioned my father,” she says.

It is as if the last bit of sleep slips from Jon’s mind. When the memories hit him again, his heart picks up speed. It hammers in his chest. He feels out of breath. “He’s returned,” he says.

“When?”

“Around eight. He arrived alone.”

Daenerys doesn’t say anything, but Jon can see panic in her eyes. They grow, then narrow, as if she’s coming to terms with his words at once. “I see,” she replies. Her voice is calm, _too_ calm. “That’s not good.”

“I covered for you,” Jon says.

Daenerys’ gaze snaps up to meet with his own. “You did what?”

“He asked where Silver was. I told him one of the boys was exercising her.”

“At this hour?” Daenerys says with incredulity, “and he believed you?”

“I think so?” Jon felt certain at the time. He doesn’t anymore. He feels his cheeks flush a little. He looks at her hand in his. He knows he should let go. He can’t make himself loosen the grip. “He wanted to see you, I think.”

“You _think?”_

“I told him you were visiting the Lannisters.”

Daenerys’ lips pop in realisation. Her eyes close. She leans her head back. She faces the ceiling, quietly. “Oh,” she mumbles. “I see.”

Jon was confident at the time of the lie, but now he feels his cheeks darken. He sucks on his lower lip and asks: “Did I do something wrong?”

At first, Daenerys doesn’t speak. She just stands, silently, her eyes closed, her lips snapped tightly shut. In the orange glow from the lamp, Jon can take her in; how her hair hangs in drenched locks down her shoulders, her habit sticks close to her body, the hemline of her skirt dripping water. She is wet, and cold, and dirty. Specks of mud cling onto her outfit. Jon imagines she stood like this at the forest edge, facing the sky, waiting for the storm to be over.

_But now, another one has picked up,_ he realises.

Daenerys opens her eyes. She slowly looks back at him. Jon expects to be told off, but her voice is soft when she says: “I can’t go back.”

“Home?” Jon asks.

She nods. “It would be improper to arrive in the middle of the night. I must wait until the morning.” She pauses. She glances back at the ceiling. She then looks at him. “You said you live here?”

“Yes,” Jon says without thinking, “my room is upstairs.”

Daenerys' eyes gleam. “Show me.”

* * *

The room is sparse: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk with a basin, and a chair in the corner. Jon holds the door and offers Daenerys the oil lamp to allow her sight of the space. She swings it around, letting the light slip up the wooden walls. He didn’t choose the furnishing. He still feels ashamed. He plunges his hands into the pockets of his trousers and mutters: “I don’t spend much time here.”

Daenerys stops before the mirror in the corner. She watches her own reflection, peeling off her soaked hat, before turning back to him. The braids around her head are loose and falling apart. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying?” she asks.

Jon shyly shrugs. “I lied to your father,” he says, trying to sound casual though the mere thought makes his blood run cold. “It’d be bad for me too if you showed up now.”

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says, the lamp swinging in front of her as she walks back to him, “you won’t get much sleep because of me. I should’ve braved the storm earlier.”

“It’s fine,” Jon assures her.

She stops before him. She looks up at him. He looks down at her. He wants to say something smart, but his mind feels empty. His hands jitter helplessly at his sides. Before he can think of anything, the sound of Silver neighing echoes up the stairs.

Jon chuckles: “I better feed her.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys smiles and offers him the lamp, but Jon pushes it back into her hands.

“I know my way,” he says, “keep it. Get yourself dried off.” Then, before she can protest, he turns and slippers down the dark stairway, stalks through the stable, and finds Silver impatiently trodding in her stall. “It’s okay, girl,” he whispers as he brushes his hand down her forehead. “I’ll get you settled in now.”

Jon gives the mare the same attention he offered Aerys’ horse; a wash, a brush, a blanket for the cold. He takes his time - and he listens. Every creak from the floorboards above makes him stop, and every little noise that he can ascribe to Daenerys causes his imagination to run wild. He tries not to think about it. But he does:

her, in his room, on his bed, naked and willing, her legs around his hips, her body arched as he penetrates her, her lips parted as she begs for more.

_She needs your help,_ Jon scolds himself as he runs a comb through Silver’s mane, the hair so soft he can barely feel it touching the wood, _not your dirty imagination._ But he finds it hard to keep himself on track, even more so when he slowly makes his way upstairs later, his steps quiet, his breath held in case she’s asleep.

He stops in front of the door. He watches the flicker of light glowing out from between the worn hinges. He tells himself to behave. He still leans in and peers through the crack.

Daenerys’ habit hangs on a hook. He can see a small puddle forming below it as water steadily drips from the skirt. Below the chair, her brown boots have been tucked away, and her soaked hat sits in his empty basin, the brim peeking up over the porcelain edge. Daenerys herself is on the edge of his bed.

As Jon spots her, he takes in a sharp breath. He moves closer to the door. His eye stares at her:

pale chemise hanging loosely on her shoulders, white drawers falling to her knees. Her undergarments are plain with only an edge of embroidery at her neckline, and the faint lettering _D. T._ sown into the leg. Her feet are bare. Her arms are bare. Her hair hangs loose down her back. She looks comfortable, as if she belongs there - in his room, in his bed, waiting.

Jon swallows. He feels his cock stir. His hand slips down the wood of the door to the dirty fabric of his trousers. He feels unclean, yet he can’t stop himself - his palm brushes against his hardening groin, his fingers fiddle with the button.

But before he gets any further, Daenerys speaks: “Why don’t you have a closer look.”

Jon freezes on the spot. His hand still rests at his groin. He doesn’t move. He just stands and watches as Daenerys runs her fingers through her hair, leans back against the wall, and casts a glance toward the door. The oil lamp still burns on the table. In its dim light, he sees her smirk.

“Come on, Jon,” she says, her voice full of allure, “wouldn’t you like to touch me?”

Jon feels like he is dreaming, but he is not - he knows the sensation of the handle, the metal cold against his hand, and the sound of the floor creaking as he steps into the room, and the feeling of sweat running down his back as he stares at her - smiling, head cocked, her hand waving him closer.

Jon closes the door. He stays in the shadows.

“Do you know who the Lannisters are?” Daenerys asks.

Jon swallows. He shakes his head.

Daenerys pops her lips. Her nails slowly drag through her hair. It’s like she’s brushing out the locks with her hands. “Where did you hear about them?”

“From Davos,” Jon says. He pauses. He adds: “You’re to marry one of them?”

“Mhmm.” Daenerys closes her eyes as she continues to brush out the braids of her hair until it’s soft and smooth down her back. Only then does she peer back at him. “Jaime Lannister. They say we’re a perfect match - both of good families, both of similar age.”

“Do you think you are?” Jon asks before shyly clarifying: “A good match, I mean.”

“Would I be here if I did?”

Jon swallows and, once more, he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, “I don’t think so.”

“What do you like about me?”

The question catches Jon off-guard. He flushes. He averts his eyes. He mumbles: “That you’re bold.”

“I can’t hear you,” Daenerys says, her voice teasing.

“That you’re bold,” Jon repeats, raising his voice slightly. His hands have become fists at his sides. He’s embarrassed. He’s excited. His cock throbs in his trousers. He forces his gaze up - past her feet, her legs, the flesh of her thighs, the dip of her chemise, the rounding of her collarbone, the shape of her chin, the perk of her lips, the curve of her nose - and he looks into her eyes. “That you’re direct with me, and kind. That you don’t call me _boy.”_

Daenerys swirls a silver lock of hair around her finger. Her smirk deepens. “What do you like about my looks?” she asks.

Jon’s cheeks are boiling. He pushes two fingers into the collar of his shirt and drags it free of his neck. He can’t breathe, not properly anyway. The room suddenly feels warmer than any night before this. “I-” he starts, but he can’t make himself speak.

Daenerys reaches over to the wall. Her fingers stroke down the wood as she speaks: “I told you before, Jon - a woman knows when she’s being watched.” Her fingertips find the crack, and they dip into the hole, her lashes fluttering innocently. “How often have you watched me?”

“Every day,” Jon admits. There’s resignation to his voice. _She knows._

“Do you touch yourself?” she asks.

Jon doesn’t reply.

Daenerys chuckles. “So you do,” she concludes. She pulls her hand free of the wall, stretches it out, reaches for him. “Come,” she asks.

Jon doesn’t move. “Daenerys,” he says, but it feels strange on his lips. It feels too friendly, too _intimate._ Watching is one thing - acting is another. He pulls harder at his collar. “Daenerys,” he starts again, “I’ve been warned.”

“About me?” She blinks.

Jon thinks of Davos. He remembers his words: _I don’t want her harmed._ He can’t say it.

Daenerys seems to understand. Her hand falls to her lap as she watches him. “Men tell me what to do, and what not to do. I can follow their lead, or I can make my own decisions where possible. I am here because I want to be, no matter what I’m told.” She cocks her head. She peers at him. She asks: “Why are you here, Jon?”

Jon feels his body stir. It’s the way she looks at him - open, inviting. His hands open and fist at his sides. He whispers: “Because I want you.” Once he’s admitted it, there’s no way back.

Daenerys sends him a wry smile. She holds out her hand. She says: “Come,” and this time Jon does:

he walks to the bed, his shadow falling over her, and he bends down, his hand resting on each side of her thighs, and he leans in, closer and closer, until his lips pause before hers, until their breaths mix, until he can see nothing but her eyes before him.

He kisses her.

She kisses him back.

In a moment, that’s all that exists in his world; her soft lips against his, her wet tongue, her cold cheek, her warm hands. She brushes his hair. He swallows her breath. He senses her worn down perfume, and sweat. He wonders if she can smell the stable on him. When he raises his hand to touch her shoulder, he knows at once what he’s been missing since he first saw her. Her touch, and the touch of her. And now he can no longer hold back.

Jon pushes her down and climbs atop of her. The bed rocks below them. Daenerys gasps, her body shivering under his touch. She is surprised, and she is pleased - he can feel it in the way she holds onto him, her nails digging through his shirt, claiming his body as a thing of her own. He wants to taste her, and feel her - _all_ of her, and his hands soon pull and push at the fabric of her undergarments.

Jon stokes her stomach, her chest. He feels the roundness of her breasts. Her soft nipples harden beneath his palms. He gives them a pinch, earning a low moan from her as her body arches at the dull pain.

“Gentle,” she reminds him, “I like a man who is _gentle.”_

“Sorry,” Jon mutters, and he drags his fingers softly down her body again. He allows himself to linger at the sensations; the way her chest rises when she breathes, and her hair falls over the side of his small bed, and her legs spread to allow him to settle between them, the bulge of his groin rubbing to her drawers.

Daenerys hands stroke down his shoulders, his chest, all the way to his trousers. She caresses his cock through the fabric. As he hardens at her touch, his breath lost somewhere in his throat, she asks: “Have you done this before?”

Jon could lie. He admits: “Just once.”

“You don’t go to the city?”

Jon shakes his head. He finds it hard to talk - especially as Daenerys’ hands dip into his trousers, her fingers closing at his cock, squeezing him into a moan. “I’m,” he gasps in air, “not that kind of man.”

“No,” she says, smiling up at him, “you’re not.” She drags him free. The hot air of the room closes around him. He feels parched, and he feels alive, throbbing lively in the small of her hand as she strokes him. She lifts her head. She licks at his ear. She whispers: “Touch me.”

Jon sinks down atop of her, his weight pressing her to the mattress as he lets his right hand roam. He feels her stomach, the dip of her navel, the band of her drawers. The fabric is folded between her legs, but it is open. His hand easily slips through the thinness of her garments, brushes against her cunt, his fingers pushing into her wetness.

Daenerys’ reaction is immediate; she moans, and her legs shiver as she spreads them further, allowing him to sink a finger into her. She is warm, and tight. It is not like he imagined - it is better. A second one fits inside of her. Her cunt welcomes him with ease.

“Oh God,” Daenerys moans. Her head is sunk into his pillow. Her eyes are watching the ceiling. Her lips are parted - she breathes rapidly, excitedly. He leans up to kiss the sounds from her lips. “Oh God, Jon,” she mutters to his mouth, her legs jerking as he starts moving his fingers, slipping them out, sinking them back in, feeling her, “kiss me.”

At first, he doesn’t understand - he stays at her mouth, kissing her, tasting her, letting his tongue dominate her mouth.

But she shakes her head. Her hand around his cock tightens. As she pulls back for air, she asks: “Kiss my body,” and Jon is eager to comply.

His lips drag down her neck, tasting the rain, the perfume, the perspiration from her ride. His nose pushes across the chemise, the fabric damp, the smell of her raw on its embroidering.

When he reaches the string of her drawers, he pulls his fingers from her cunt, sinks them around the fabric, drags it down to her knees. Her cunt is revealed before him; wet, and pink, the brush of hair on the mount as brightly silver as her locks. He smells her juices in it, tastes her against his lips as he kisses his way to her labia, in between them, his tongue licking the heat of her sex.

Daenerys holds on to his hair. He feels her nails drag at his scalp, twist at his curly locks, guide him around her cunt as she whispers: “Yes, _there.”_ And he follows her lead; he gently kisses her clit, strokes his tongue alongside her labia, sinks his nose into her hair as he goes deeper. He licks her. He tastes her. The hairs on his chin catch on to her juices. He feels his face soak in her scent.

But he can’t stop. He won’t stop, not when every lick and kiss sending shivers right to his cock. He is hard. She is moaning. She leads him deeper. She leads him further. She pushes his face down - past her cunt, across the soft skin below her sex. Jon follows - kissing, licking, giving. Further yet - between her buttocks, her legs rising, her heels resting on his shoulders, her knees pulling up.

Soon Jon is by her arse. His nose is dipped into her most intimate area. And as she pauses, expectantly, her body tense with anticipation and worry, her lips parted, her voice whispering: “You don’t have to-” he takes a hold of her buttocks.

Jon spreads her. He licks her. His tongue flickers across the tight ring of muscles - and the moan that escapes Daenerys’ lips is incredible.

He thought her excited before - now, her body seems to melt between his hands, her muscles relaxing, her feet shivering as he licks and kisses his way around her asshole. He can smell her. It excites him. When he watched her, all he had was his imagination. Now, as he has her, as he tastes her, as she allows him access to a place he’s certain no one has been before - he feels privileged. He feels certain; he craves her, and he is going to take her.

Daenerys is soon a pink, wriggling mess on his bed. She tosses her head around. She grabs and pulls at his hair. She whispers: “Oh God,” over and over like a chant. When one of Jon’s hands slips between her buttocks, his thumb pushing to her arse, using his spit to glide inside, she whines his name: _“Jon!”_ \- and it’s all he can take.

Jon pushes up, leans in over her, his cock in his hand as he positions himself between her legs. But before he can sink into her cunt, Daenerys puts her hands to his chest.

“Jon,” she says, this time with more control of her voice.

Jon hovers her, tense, his cock throbbing with need. But he waits. He watches her. He listens.

Daenerys’ eyes are closed. Her cheeks are flushed. She breathes in. She breathes out. When she looks up at him, the violet in her eyes has darkened. “We can’t,” she says.

Jon swallows. He feels something in his chest - like a knot, tugging at his inners, pulling him into an unknown sensation of pain. “We can’t?” he repeats. He’s not certain it’s audible.

Daenerys shakes her head with regret. “I can’t-” she starts, sighing in frustration before continuing: “I can’t risk becoming with child.”

“Right,” Jon says. He hadn’t thought of it. It now seems as clear as day - they can’t be together. Of course not, not even for a night. It could mean the end of his job. It could spell disaster for her future.

The air in Jon’s nose is hot. When he lets go of it, he feels his lungs burning. “Right,” he says again, pushing himself back on his knees. He suddenly feels silly, _ashamed,_ sitting before her with his cock in his hands, pulsating, hard. He makes a move to tug himself away.

Daenerys reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. “Wait,” she says.

Jon looks at her hand. He looks at her. He almost can’t bear it. He only manages a gruff: “What?”

Daenerys bites her lower lip. Her hold on his wrist soon loosens, and she pulls back, holding her hand to her chest as she speaks: “Well…” She pauses. She looks away. A sentence seems to be right on the tip of her tongue, only she won’t speak it.

Jon throbs. He feels his balls tighten. It’s painful. He’s desperate. “What?” he asks again. He wants to sound patient and kind. It comes out hurried.

“You know where you just licked me?” Daenerys asks. She’s still not looking at him, choosing to stare at the ceiling instead. “If you… if we…” She stops. She swallows. A shadow of defiance falls over her face. As if she’s suddenly reminded of who she is and who he is, she stares at him, boldly, and says: “I want you to take me there.”

Jon stares at her in disbelief. “You do?”

“Do you have oil?” Daenerys asks. Her face is red, and she looks like she’d rather not have to explain, but she carries on: “If you use some oil, I’d like you to take me there.”

“You would?” Jon says. His voice is incredulous. He can’t believe what she’s asking. He’s heard of it, of course - but to do it? And with an unmarried woman? He feels sweat dragging down his back. He doesn’t want to admit it - but the thought makes his cock rock hard.

“Do you have oil?” Daenerys repeats.

Jon doesn’t have to reach far - from his lonely moments at night, he keeps a bottle just below his bed. He pulls it out. The slick liquid glows in the light from the lamp. As he presents it to Daenerys, she looks surprised, but he’s grateful she doesn’t ask any questions. She merely nods, pulls her drawers off, and throws them to the side as she flips over on the mattress.

The bed creaks. Jon stares at her - partially undressed, pale naked buttocks shining orange in the light, her cheeks pink, her back curved, her eyes impatient as she looks back over her shoulder at him.

“Well,” she says, and he can hear how her voice quivers, how she tries to sound in charge despite her position, “I am getting cold.”

“Right,” Jon says again, but his voice is no longer gruff. It is bemused. It is excited. He smears a few droplets of oil onto his fingers, grabs a hold of her buttocks, and spreads her open. His fingers sink across her asshole. The muscles are still wet from his spit. Now, with the added slickness of the oil, his first finger drags across the ring, pushes, and slips inside with ease.

As his first finger penetrates her, Daenerys gasps and buries her face in his pillow. He can feel her tense - closing in around him, her muscles working across his finger as if her body isn’t sure whether to allow him or force him out. But as his other hand roams her back, caresses her buttocks, and as he leans down to place warm kisses on her skin, she relaxes. She softens around him. She allows him to slip deep into her.

Her cunt was warm and wet. Her behind is tight and hot. Jon wasn’t sure what to expect, but now, as he lets his fingertip drag in and out of her, loosen her, pry at her hole until a second finger can enter, he knows what he prefers. If he takes her here, he is sure to have a part of her no other man ever will, and no other man will ever know about. That thought alone is enough to make him sweat.

Jon’s cock jerks between his legs. He grits his teeth together and forces himself to ignore it as he starts fingering her asshole.

At first, Jon goes slow, but soon, with the lubrication from the oil, he is able to feel her with more ease. It is a dull, wet sound every time he sinks inside of her, and it’s followed by Daenerys’ low, needy moan into his pillow. Her sound is muffled. It is still sharp to his ears.

By the time he enters her with a third finger, Daenerys rolls her head back and gasps: “It’s enough, Jon, it’s enough,” and he releases her with a pop.

His hand is slick with oil. He closes it around his cock and gives it a few jerks, watching Daenerys as she tightens her arse, relaxes it, scoots further into the bed. She looks nervous. She looks keen - the way she keeps peeking over her shoulder through the locks of her hair, expectantly. She watches his cock. She watches his face. As his hand closes around her buttock, she gives him a nod of confidence.

“Gently,” she reminds him.

“Of course,” Jon promises. His cock slips between her buttocks, the head teasing her asshole, resting at her entrance. He looks into her eyes. She looks back at him. He says: “Are you sure?” and there is exasperation to her voice as she breathes:

_“Yes.”_ It’s all he needs to hear.

Jon pushes into her with a jerk of his hips. As soon as her muscles close around his cockhead though, he has to stop himself from just rushing forward. His grip on her arse tightens, his fingers sinking into her skin, marking her pink. He holds back a moan. It escapes his nose in a grunt.

Daenerys is tight and warm, and the oil is thick around his length. It seems hotter than her body temperature, like a soft piece of cloth closing around his cock. Her arse pulls at him, urges him further inside of her, invites him to fill her and take her.

But he breathes out. He leans in over her. He tries to catch her eyes. “Daenerys?” he asks. His voice is strained.

Daenerys rolls her head to the side and groans: “Go on.”

“Does it hurt?”

_“Go on.”_

Jon takes a hold of her waist. She seems small in his big hand. As he starts pushing into her, sinking down over her, he feels as if she’s disappearing into his mattress. As if she’s barely there, weak to his strength. But she _is_ there - tugging at his cock, jerking at him, making his balls tighten with a need to come too soon.

Soon, he’s all the way inside of her. He rests for a second. He blinks, looking at the wall ahead of him, sweat dripping from his brow into his eyes. He wasn’t certain what it would feel like. He’s never known a sensation like this. His body aches for more and so, before he can ask her anything else, he pulls out, then pushes back into her, forcing her body to accommodate his throbbing cock.

Daenerys whines at his movements. But she doesn’t ask him to stop. Her hands dig deeply into his duvet. Her face is still hidden in his pillow. He can hear her hard breathing. Or perhaps it’s his own - his burning lungs, his boiling face, his shivering hands slipping across her skin. They’re wet with perspiration. He reaches up to take a more firm hold of her buttocks as he drags himself out before sinking back into her, her body enclosing him in pure bliss.

For a while, all he can hear is himself. The slap of his balls to her arse. The breath escaping his lips. The needy throb of his cock, like a dull heartbeat in his ear. But then, as he shoves back into her again, hard and deep, there’s a change.

Suddenly, Daenerys’ head pulls up, and she gasps and moans at once, her voice a deep groan of pleasure. _“Yes!”_ she cries, loud enough that Jon snaps out of his own head and stares down at her. Her back is arched. Her eyes are rolling back. She claws at his duvet as she demands: “Do that again.”

Jon holds onto her. He pulls back. He thrusts into her, fills her in one curt move.

Daenerys moans. Her voice echoes in his room. “Again,” she says, and he complies:

again and again, Jon fills Daenerys’ ass, fucks her deeply with his cock, stretches her tight inners to make room for himself. She said gently - but she moans when he takes her hard, and soon there’s no pause between his thrusts. It becomes a steady rhythm, his cock taking her, claiming her, their skin slapping together in a loud series of claps. It sounds wet. It sounds raw. Mixed with their grunts and moans, it becomes real, and needy, and greedy.

Jon is sweating. He’s throbbing. He’s in disbelief; just hours ago, he was sitting downstairs, worried for Daenerys’ life. Now, he’s taking her, pleasuring her - and there’s no going back.

Jon sinks into her. He groans. He’s unable to stop. He comes, hard and heavy, his cock filling her with cum. Daenerys either feels it, or she senses it, because she groans, desperately, her hands flailing across the duvet, holding onto the edge of the bed, clawing into the wood as he slams into her, once more, twice more, keen on the last touch of heat from her as he grows soft inside her.

When he pulls out, breathless and tired, sperm is dripping out of her pink hole and down her thighs. But he has no time to pause:

Daenerys rolls over, her legs spread, her wet cunt an exciting sight. She reaches up. She grabs him by the hair. She doesn’t even have to tug to let him know what she wants.

Jon sinks his head between her legs, and he uses his mouth to please her. He sucks at her clit. He kisses her labia. He licks her sex, outside, inside, his tongue stretching to her hole. She is wet. She is on edge. A rub of his nose against her clit is all it takes; she comes, hard, her body quivering to his mouth, her hands weak in his hair as she pulls and drags her fingers through his curls, over and over again.

He continues licking until her hands protest, tiredly pushing him away. Only then does he climb up the bed, sinks down next to her, and breathlessly lets his arm sink down across her partially clothed body.

Daenerys turns. She buries her nose in his shirt. She smells him and he, unable to stop himself, pushes his nose into her hair and smells her too: sweat, and sex. He forgets she ever carried another scent.

For a time, they are quiet, content in the silence that sinks over them. Outside, the night is making way for the grey morning light, and inside, the oil lamp burns out, the last fuel gone. They lay until the sun starts to rise. Jon is not even sure if he sleeps, or if he just rests, listening to Daenerys’ breathing. But he stirs when she moves.

“I should get dressed,” she whispers.

Jon nods, and he averts his eyes, suddenly shy to see her naked behind as she picks her clothes off the peg. He allows her to dress unobserved, his eyes focused on the crack in the wall. He can see the colours of the sky through it - golden, red. He never knew he could come to hate dawn.

The floorboards creak. Daenerys kneels next to the bed. She watches him. She takes his hands in hers. “I won’t see you for a while, Jon,” she says.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks. It’s unnecessary - he knows what she means, but he doesn’t _want_ to know. He wants to go back in time, to when she arrived from the rain, to when he watched her at the door, to when they kissed, to when they fucked.

Daenerys smiles to his palms. “No,” she whispers, “but Father won’t let me ride. Until he goes travelling, I will have to stay away.”

Jon still doesn’t look at her. He eyes the crack. He feels his eyes ache. He guesses it must be the sweat making them hurt. “Right,” he just says.

Daenerys leans in. She pecks his lips. She says: “There, I kissed it better.”

Jon wants to laugh. He lets go of a sob. When he looks at her, he finds her eyes are red. “Are you crying?” he asks.

Daenerys shakes her head. She is smiling. Her cheeks glisten wet in the morning light. “Of course not.”

“Will you marry him?”

“Will you wait for me?”

Jon looks at her hands around his. He wrestles free and, for a second, she looks hurt. Then, he sits up, grabs her by the cheeks, pulls her in for a kiss. “Whenever,” he says to her lips, “I am here.”

Daenerys chuckles. She brushes his hair. She whispers: “And I am here,” before pulling away. She leaves. The stairs creak. He hears her whisper words of nothing to Silver. Then, she is gone.

Jon pauses. Then he scurries to the crack. He presses his eye to it. He watches her:

Daenerys Targaryen, perfectly presentable in her dried habit, her hair pulled up into a simple knot below her hat. She walks slowly, but with purpose, crossing the yard toward the mansion. But the look she sends over her shoulder is anything but nice: it is cheeky, it is a smirk. He thinks he sees her winking.

Jon sinks back onto his bed. He listens to the birds whistling, and the horses neighing. He listens to the boys arriving for work. He listens to Davos shout:

“Jon! What ye still sleepin’ fer, boy? Come an’ feed t’ horses!”

Jon closes his eyes. He opens his eyes. He thinks: _It was all just a dream._ A simple summertime sweetness, a thought, a hope. Only - dreams do not leave behind their drawers.

Jon reaches down. He picks the white fabric off the floor. He turns it between his hands. He sees the lettering: _D. T._ He smells it. It smells of her - of her perfume, and sweat, and cunt, and arse.

Davos shouts: “Wake up, boy, or I will make sure ye never wake again!”

Jon folds the drawers. He pushes them beneath his duvet. He tugs himself away, flattens the crinkles in his clothes, and casts a glance into the mirror. He smiles at his reflection. It smiles back. He says: “No longer a boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like I posted the first chapter a lifetime ago, but it really has only been two weeks. Wow, how time passes at an odd speed this year! Thank you so much for the lovely feedback on the first part. I was humbled so many of you liked the story! I hope this second part didn't disappoint.
> 
> A special shout out to DragonandDirewolf for the nice close-up drawing today. It's so intimate and sweet that I just want to print it and hang it somewhere. The look on Dany's face? Glorious.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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